


Dandelion

by BrightneeBee



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alpha/Omega, Alternate Universe - Werewolf, Claiming Bites, Dominant/Submissive, F/M, Knotting, LITERALLY WEREWOLVES HAVING SEX, Monster sex, Werewolf Mates, Werewolf Sex, monster fucking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-30
Updated: 2020-05-30
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:53:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24453970
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrightneeBee/pseuds/BrightneeBee
Summary: Instinct, by definition of the Oxford reference, is a complex pattern of behaviour innately determined, which is characteristic of all individuals of the same species.It is also a natural drive that urges the individual towards a particular goal.Animal instinct. Human instinct. At times, a blend of the two.That is what Hermione relies on as she sprints through the dense Scottish forest and harsh spring rain. On four legs, she outpaces the large, ebony wolf nipping at her tail. Shaggy, honey brown coat drenched and weighed her down, yet she continued to remain out of reach of the alpha. Only just out of reach, but she enjoyed an exhilarating hunt, even if she was to be the prey.Of a sense, mostly.TOMIONE SMUTFEST 2020: A/B/O AU prompt
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Tom Riddle
Comments: 9
Kudos: 181
Collections: Tomione Smut Fest 2020





	Dandelion

**Author's Note:**

  * For [uleanblue](https://archiveofourown.org/users/uleanblue/gifts).
  * In response to a prompt by Anonymous in the [TomioneSmutFest20](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/TomioneSmutFest20) collection. 



> **Prompt:**
> 
> A/B/O AU
> 
> **Special thanks to UleanBlue for inspiring certain events in this fic, as well as the constant support, cheering on, and kick in the ass when I most needed it. My BFF, and closest friend, and a treasure.**
> 
> Title: Dandelion
> 
> Author: brightneeBee
> 
> Prompt: A/B/O AU
> 
> Pairing: Tom Riddle/Hermione Granger (Tomione) 
> 
> Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by J.K. Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros. Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
> 
> Rating: Explicit (AO3)
> 
> Warnings: Explicit language, Dom/Sub, Explicit descriptions of sexual intercourse, MonsterFucking, AU - Alternate Universe
> 
> Also want to give credit to Henri Poincare on the psychology of Chaos Theory, and Nietschze for an Introduction to Chaos Theory, and Robert Berezin, MD for this article: https://www.psychologytoday.com/us/blog/the-theater-the-brain/201407/consciousness-encompasses-and-reflects-chaos-and-order
> 
> So I'm not accused of plagiarism, I am giving props and referencing the people who have contributed to the ideas and philosophies of Chaos Theory. 
> 
> Also, credit to the Oxford Reference online for providing the definition of Instinct. *

DANDELION

Instinct, by definition of the Oxford reference, is a complex pattern of behaviour innately determined, which is characteristic of all individuals of the same species. 

It is also a natural drive that urges the individual towards a particular goal. 

Animal instinct. Human instinct. At times, a blend of the two. 

That is what Hermione relies on as she sprints through the dense Scottish forest and harsh spring rain. On four legs, she outpaces the large, ebony wolf nipping at her tail. Shaggy, honey brown coat drenched and weighed her down, yet she continued to remain out of reach of the alpha. Only just out of reach, but she enjoyed an exhilarating hunt, even if she was to be the prey. 

Of a sense, mostly. 

Werewolves are different and similar to natural wolves, only larger and retaining two mindsets. One, the human aspect. Second, the wolf. Both worked in tandem, save for the three nights of a full moon. The night before, the night of, the night after. The wolf was in complete control on those nights, every month without fail. Running in packs through the country, deep in the darkness of the forests, or through the fields and moors. In organized packs pursuing heavy game, or as lone wolves. Through a metre of snow, or rain, or warm summer night. Always under the glimmering pale moonlight of an inescapable moon. 

Despite (or in spite of) the popular belief in the wizarding world, werewolves had their own societal foundations, as well as laws. Each pack abided by those universal laws, moved in the ebb and flow of pack circles, and added their own unique touches to how varying districts or regions within a country were run, as well as how the werewolf populations within them were to act. Territories. Step out of line, and the controlling leader of the territory would make an example out of whomever decided to go against centuries of well constructed hierarchy. Laws and order, and all that. 

Of course, as a lone wolf, Hermione felt that hierarchy was neither here nor there. In the pack she had been in previously, the class system had made her bristle. It rubbed her the wrong way, being an omega. The Alpha wolves saw her as property, pawed at her, made it clear that omegas were nothing more than breeders, not organizers or soldiers. None of those Alphas had been worthy - were never worthy. 

So, she left. 

Tom Riddle, though… 

The alpha wolf was practically nipping at her heels, and it was thrilling. Hermione knew who it was, this overwhelmingly large alpha wolf. She knew him as a tall man with a light spattering of scruff upon his hard, cut jaw with broad shoulders and a physique reminiscent of a Roman god. Mars carved from alabaster and marble, the God of War in flesh and bone. Gleaming complexion of gypsum; pale, natural olive, yet translucent; and dark, fathomless eyes. Even the short and artfully mussed curls about his head were a deep well of black. 

Obsidian, onyx. The endless yawn of night, stretching on into the void. And that was the gist of Tom Riddle, wasn’t it? 

Light and dark. Night and day. Or, rather, the physical representation of chaos and order. For Chaos did birth Order, in a sense. That was the theory, anyway, and that was what Hermione saw when she looked upon the intimidating frame of Tom Riddle. Order from chaos, and chaos from order, and,  _ “the eventual return to randomness.” _ A perfect description of the man and the wolf. Intelligence and madness and mystery wrapped tightly in a pretty package. An enigma of the best and the worst of man and wolf-kind. 

The mate she had been waiting for… 

Sharp lupine teeth grazed over Hermione’s right flank, jolting her out of distorted images of the man that walked in the daylight, but was chasing her through the forest in fur resembling twilight, and eyes glowing amber gold. A drastic comparison to her own wolf’s coat, which was much the color of an iron brew brindled with smokey greys and caramel, eyes of honey and flecked with evergreen. Hermione’s wolf was petite and slender; built for sprinting through the swaying grass and flowers of far-reaching fields, cutting through layers of snow, weaving through the most challenging woods, and running down large game or dainty fowl. She was twice the size of the largest wolf species in the wild, yet no match compared to the average beta, or bulky alpha werewolves. 

Tom’s wolf, in particular. 

Or Tom, specifically. 

A break in the trees ahead. The heart of the forest where no mortal dare venture, never knowing of the thrumming pulse of magic that lay hidden in the depths of every wood. A place where everything thrived, hidden from the world at large. It slept during the winter, and burst into life when the snow began to melt. A safe haven, sanctuary, this sacred place. 

_ Moon blooms... _

A meadow of them in the center of the forest. Moon blooms and night phlox and lunar jasmine and thistles and fluttery sweetgrass. Climbing vines and invasive wisteria reached up the trunks of the native trees of Galloway, stretching across the empty spaces between like elaborate arches, while the delicate glow of fairies and Luna moths danced from blossom to blossom. The pale light of the full moon glittered in the air, casting an ethereal luminescence that made the clearing  _ shine. _

The thing about Alpha werewolves… 

No, not quite correct. 

The  _ unsettling, involuntary reaction _ in werewolves, especially alphas, was that certain appendages seemed to protrude from lewd places in times of immense excitement. Instinct had the propensity to be primal, an urge surfacing through benign sensory stimulation. (Stimulus?) As it were, the unthinkable did happen. 

Hermione slowed her pace to take in the beauty of it all, at the same time that Tom leaped to tackle her to the ground, obviously no longer deriving enjoyment from the chase. She cocked her head to glance back at Tom, urged by the shift in air, only for his unsheathed, glistening cock to collide against her sleek coated face. Large and thick, meaty and red, it slapped across her muzzle in a profound way, startling her to a yelp, before his hind legs caught her by the neck. 

The werewolves tumbled together through the clearing, scaring off the incandescent fairies and glimmering Lunar moths. Hermione may have been startled, aware of what had happened from behind the barrier of the wolf in the forefront, but unable to react as she would normally in comparison to how her wolf handled the shock of a stunning blow and concentration of pheromones clogging her snout. A woodsy, balsamic scent. Heady, and strong like sandalwood and bay rum. Warm, and spicy, and sweet with a hint of Aspen and rich soil and musk. 

Hermione’s first reaction was to sneeze to get the scent out, but not much came of that as they rolled in a tangle of fur and legs, swiping paws and snarling maws. On a hunt, or simply running, there was no competition, as Hermione would always come out ahead by leaps and bounds. In a fight, she would need to select her opponent strategically. There were merely a few weak alphas that she could most likely take on, outwit and outpace enough to tire them before going in for the kill. She had fought several betas, as well. They had been fairly easy, not as agile as she, nor sharply focused. Yet, Hermione had never gone after an alpha with the brute strength and finesse that Tom possessed in the body of a man as well as his wolf. 

Of course, it was more foreplay than a true battle between predators. More like it was a fight for dominance that Hermione knew Tom would win, but the act of defying him for a time only heightened her own arousal. The chase had been exhilarating, but the anticipation as they struggled amongst the non-native blooms and sweetgrass fluttering in the night air was far more visceral. A tangible test of resolve. 

Minutes slipped by Hermione’s notice, only rendered to a standstill as Tom put more emphasis in his growls and snarls, after claws had cut through flesh and teeth had drawn blood. A command, of sorts. Or, perhaps, a warning. Submit, or be forced to submit. She had already decided that she would let Tom claim her, mate her, tie them together. He was intelligent and cunning, focused, and strong.  _ The mate she had been waiting for…  _

Yes, most definitely. 

Alpha. 

_ Mate... _

A sudden pulse of heat spread through her, electric and quick, followed by slick dripping from her downy quim. Trembling under her fur, in the crisp end of spring, Hermione submitted to her chosen Alpha, to Tom and his wolf counterpart. She bowed, arching her back and presenting her hindquarters to the night air with a deferring whimper. He responded by licking her muzzle with something akin to affection. Not a thing one would use when describing Tom Riddle, but they were not a witch and wizard at that moment. No, they were Alpha and Omega. Werewolves. Magical folk in wolf skin, and the wolves were in control. They were only watching from behind glass. 

Tom sniffed her from the scruff of her furry neck to the flesh exposed underneath the bristly, fluffed length of her tail. She could smell him in the air, that musk of his own arousal, and his pheromones. That natural scent unique to him that remained written upon her membrane, that of an instinctual mind, of which she would always recognize. It was intoxicating to the heightened sense of a lycanthrope, seared into her sinuses and released into her bloodstream. Or it seemed so by her reactions; the shivering under her thick coat, the line of fur raised along her spine; the slick dripping from her cunt, and the burst of her own pheromones to mingle with his. 

There was that delicious anticipation as Tom reared up, hooking his front legs around her middle, paws locked against her underbelly. His large, opened jaw hovered over the scruff of her neck, as he thrust up against her hindquarters. One, two, three, four thrusts, and then she howled when the blunt, tapered tip of Tom’s thick, meaty cock caught at the throbbing entrance of her quim and pushed in. The stretch was immensely uncomfortable, but there was a primal pleasure in the dull pain as he buried himself to the hilt, less the uninflated knot at the base. The satisfaction seeped into Hermione’s bones with the knowledge that she would only ever be for Tom, and he for her. 

_ Ruined for other men… _

Yes, that was the initial thought.  _ ‘Ruined for other men.’ _ And it was basically true. Biological imperative, and physiologically speaking, he was molding the flesh of her wolf to him in a way that would only ever satisfy… Well, him. Only him. That was what mating meant, and there would be no going back. The wolves would be tied together magically, because wolves in the wild mated for life. Why wouldn’t werewolves be the same?

Fucking as wolves was by far different than fucking as a human, Hermione found. Wolves rutted, but Tom deviated from that alpha urge. Every stroke back and forth was measured, instead of that instinctual need to jut in and out with rapidity. He was ensuring her pleasure, as well as his own, and, for that, Hermione’s wolf howled and whimpered and yelped in appreciation. Jolts of arousal, shivers of pleasure, and it all radiated through her with each thrust of his cock into her tight cunt. Instinct. Biological imperative. The forming of the mating bond.  _ Magic. _

Tom nipped about the sides of her neck, a grounding action that simultaneously amplified her own pleasure. It rippled down her spine, tingling along the hairs raised to the juncture of her tail, and the jolt of his hips into hers. It was different,  _ quite different. _ But more intense, like sparks of electricity exploding into the air upon impact. Lightning striking a tree on the moors, sparks flying and fire igniting in the infusion of wind, air breathing life into destruction. 

Hermione had never cared much for flying, but as Tom worked his soft knot into the vice of her cunt, she found herself soaring higher, higher, higher. When the knot began to inflate, swelling and hardening and catching in such a way to tie them together, it was pure bliss. It was as if something had been missing, a void eating away at her since being turned, and Tom had been the key. He fit into that dark, far reaching place and smoothed out the edges, filling that void until she howled to the full moon, his sharp teeth piercing the flesh of the scruff of her neck. 

Euphoria and rightness. 

Chaos and order. 

It crashed through Hermione like a storm surge breaking through a dam. Pure, unadulterated pleasure. The claiming bond surged forth, bursting to life between them. Alpha and Omega, a mated pair in the balancing scales of nature. Everything set to rights. 

The world faded to black quickly, and greeted them gradually upon waking. 

The brush of awakeness came in the warmth of sunshine on Hermione’s cheeks, the rustle of her frizzy, mussed hair in the morning breeze, and the comfort of being enveloped in thick arms while a firm chest pressed hotly against the lithe, slender slope of her back. Lips kissed along her pulse, down the line of her neck to her delicate shoulder, while a prominent appendage thrust lazily between the cheeks of her arse. Broad hands with long, sturdy fingers wandered over her bared flesh; the dip of her clavicle, the shallow valley between her breasts, the tilt of her belly. Those deft fingers combed through the trimmed, downy curls at her pelvis to the sensitive, rosey pearl of her clit and the dewy lips of her quim. 

“Mmm,” Hermione hummed, stretching in Tom’s embrace, back arched and arse pressing back against his cock. She winced slightly at the raw, sharp sting of her newly acquired claiming bite that seemed to have stretched out across the narrow span of her shoulder blades. “That was quite an experience.” 

She could feel him smirk into the flesh of her shoulder before he replied in a roguish growl, “I wouldn’t mind providing you with more experiences in the same fashion, Granger.” 

“I hear the telltale echoes of a ‘but’ in your tone,” she sighed, unwilling to open her eyes just yet. Not when the sensations Tom was inspiring in her felt so wonderfully delicious. “Do refrain from ruining the moment, Tom.”

Two skilled fingers parted the folds of Hermione’s cunt and deftly dipped into that slick succulence with another strained growl rumbling deep in his chest, “Oh, Granger, I highly doubt you will find anything to complain about when I’m through with you.” 

“But…” 

“There’s the urgent matter of sealing the bond,” he groaned, nipping at the lob of her ear, while his fingers worked her sex in calculated, measured thrusts, “before the final moon fades tomorrow morning.” 

Hermione hummed once more, twisting to and fro in the circle of his arms and rolling her hips against the thrusting of his fingers, “Then I see no reason to delay…” 

The sun shone red behind her eyelids, and Hermione blinked and squinted as she opened them. There was nothing more sensual than waking to the caresses of a lover, with the sun ascending to its peak in the sky, warming naked flesh, and the kiss of a cool breeze upon the skin. Nothing was more sumptuous than the feel of long sweetgrass underneath her, the sway of flowers all around, and the sounds of nature in the air. The gentle trickling of a stream closeby, the buzzing of honey bees and the flutter of hummingbird wings and the whistling chirps of birds in the trees. 

There was a striking sense of being one with nature, which Hermione quite enjoyed. 

Werewolves are of magic,  _ and nature… _

“Was this field not filled with moon blooms?” asked Hermione, catching sight of vastly different flowers swaying in the breeze, but that thought was dashed as Tom crooked his fingers inside of her, over the sensitive flesh as his thumb worked over her clit. “Fuck - Don’t stop!” 

Teeth grazed over the scent gland nestled at the juncture where neck curved into shoulder, pulsing rapidly in time with her heart. There was nothing more thrilling than the thought that Tom, with his vicious, calculating personality, could bite down to seal the bond, or chose to rip out her throat, and there wasn’t anything she could do about it. By the time she could react, the deed would be done. The exhilaration came from the possibilities. The sense of ease in which she allowed his teeth anywhere near her throat showed the amount of trust she was bestowing in him. 

Not that she trusted him completely, in all things. Hermione knew that he was scheming. She knew he was capable of unimaginable violence in pursuit of his own desires, and goals. What he set his mind to he always succeeded, by charisma or force. She knew most everything before she made the decision to accept him as her mate. But he would never raise his hand to her, nor harm her intentionally in any way. Not ever, once they were bound together by blood and magic and soul. 

_ Yes, because werewolves were of magic and blood and soul.  _

Fingers fucking her thoroughly, while Tom thrust his erection insistently between the cleft of her arse, and Hermione could do no more than whimper and mewl. He growled and snarled into the flesh of her shoulder, inhaling deeply of her aroused scent and working tirelessly, effortlessly, to bring forth an explosive orgasm to add to his ego, as well as ease the way for his brutal, unrestrained proclivities. He enjoyed the sight of slick dripping from her cunt, pooling underneath them as he bent Hermione about, contorting her in various ways and unleashing depths of pleasure in the midst of pain. For there was no point in it if she was not thoroughly enjoying herself, as well. 

_ Chaos from order, and order from chaos, and the eventual return to randomness. _

Yes, chaos and order, and it was glorious when in the context of rutting about and intellectual debates with Tom Riddle. Alpha. Mate. The man and the beast, both.  _ Alpha. Mate.  _ Stoking the fire in her belly with mouth and teeth and hands and fingers and tongue and lips. Building a tension like a string upon a violin, a coil tightening ‘round a bolt, until it snapped. The release was all the more sweeter for the strategic care taken to inspire such exultation. 

_ Euphoria and rightness… _

The world tilted and spun out of Hermione’s grasp, as Tom moved her with him in a blink. Lightning quick reflexes, and the agility to accomplish it with such a large, hulking frame. Heated flesh pressed against heated flesh, while Hermione pressed her flushed cheek against the crumpled sweetgrass beneath them both. Her body thrummed and vibrated in a tempest of pleasure, flying deliriously to close to the sun like Icarus with wings made of wax, and languidly pliant. Not yet returned to her own body as Tom lifted her hips in alignment to his formidable cock, fingers digging into the soft swell of her waist in such a brutish grip. 

_ Dandelions… _

Burnet rose and water avens, lovely purple thrift and spring vetch, pretty yellow gorse and march marigolds, and dandelions. Flowering dandelions, and fluffy white puffs of dandelions that danced and scattered on the wind. Hermione saw them floating away as Tom thrust into her from behind. Firm, harsh, unforgiving. But she moaned, arching into the jolting motion, all the same. He would always be a staggering size - man and wolf - filling her in unimaginable ways, but the stretch to accommodate him would always be part of the pleasure. That first, sharp burn as he slammed in to the hilt, in all its ruthlessness, would always be Hermione’s preferred beginning to what would be an extensive and intense fucking. 

Despite her strong, unyielding personality, Hermione’s omega biology (a primal instinct she no longer fought against) begged to submit to Tom’s dominant Alpha identity. In wolf’s fur, it was confusing to have two prominent mindsets in opposition, but after the rutting under the full moon, there was quite something to be said for fighting more for the thrill of it, to not submit so easily. If she were so inclined at that moment, in human flesh of blood and bone, Hermione would struggle and fight, if only to rile Tom up just a smidge more. Something to file away for another time, most definitely. 

“Please,” Hermione keened, thin fingers slipping through the tufts of grass to bury themselves into the rich soil underneath. “Tom, please.” 

It was unspoken, but he knew what Hermione meant, what she wanted, what he was always more than willing to give. A more punishing campaign with fierce, exquisite wallops to her arse, and less restrained bites down the line of her spine. He complied immediately, enthusiastically and with a harsh snarl against the flesh between her shoulder blades. Leveraged against the supple ground, Hermione met each savage thrust in reverse, savoring the ascent to euphoric deliverance. 

Release. Orgasm. Ecstasy. 

A hand found its grip in her wild curls, short nails scraping severely against her scalp, and one curling around her throat when Tom yanked her up to kneeling, shoulders flush against his chest. The grasp on her hair was unrelenting, forcing her to bow her back in a rigid bridge, as he dug his fingers viciously into the sides of her throat, palm pressing threateningly against her windpipe. He squeezed, cutting off most of her supply of air, but Hermione gasped and mewled in appreciation as he increased his inhuman pace. 

Tom drew out and slammed back in, hips angled to drag along the fluttering walls of her cunt that were  _ plus sensibles. _ The fire that had burned brightly in Hermione’s belly had spread through her veins, a searing thrum of galvanic pleasure resonating in a spiritual sense. Suddenly the sun on her face was far too hot, the breeze no longer cooling, but a prickle along her skin, cold needles pricking her taut nipples. Tom was buried to the hilt, knot caught and swelling, and it seemed far more than previously experienced. 

“Touch yourself, Hermione,” he snarled, easing her from the impossible arch of her spine to her hands and knees, teeth poised against the mating gland at the nape of her neck. “Come for me.” 

So dizzying, it was, that instantaneous rush of air in her lungs, jolted forward to once again dig her fingers into the earth. Hermione complied with her Alpha’s command, using one hand to manipulate her clit. Firm circular motions until the pressure exploded, as Tom’s knot swelled to capacity and his teeth cut deep into the flesh around her mating gland. It was a force of nature tearing through Hermione’s very being; blood and bone, magic and soul. Shattering, it felt like, only to be pieced back together in a new way, connected to Tom and he connected to Hermione (in ways incapable of fathomability). 

A moment of clarity, or spiritual enlightenment, carried Hermione through their shared release. A steadying calm that cushioned the descent back to her body, knotted to Tom -  _ tied together  _ \- and laid down in the comfortable embrace of her mate.  _ Mate.  _ Head pillowed upon his bicep, Hermione sighed in contentment, while watching the flowers play in the breeze and the fluffy, white seeds of the dandelions lift up, up, and away. Ballerinas in tutus, dancing on air and carrying off with them all doubts. 

That was what Hermione would remember the most clearly… 

_ Dandelions... _


End file.
